


Music in the Dark

by JKL_FFF



Category: Gravity Falls, ParaNorman (2012), Parapines - Fandom
Genre: Breaking and Entering, Ghosts, High School, Inspired by Music, M/M, Music, Musicians, Parapines, Possession, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 15:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20137609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JKL_FFF/pseuds/JKL_FFF
Summary: The Ghost of a concert pianist cannot move on until he gives his last performance.But an incorporeal cannot play physical keys; he needs the help of a kind-hearted Medium.But when the performance of a lifetime--the performance of a deathtime--needs more to be perfect,it's not the Ghost who will pay the costly price of perfection.The kind-hearted Medium is willing to pay that price …But is he able? And are his friends willing to let him risk paying a price he can't afford?





	Music in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> The shipping aspect of this is fairly minimal--mostly Norman having a one-sided crush on Dipper Pines, who is hopelessly oblivious but protective--and some fluffy moments. Just so no one gets into this solely for the ship, only to be disappointed that it doesn't lead into anything explicit.
> 
> Also, incidentally, this was the second piece of fanfic I ever wrote and posted (even before "Through a Slender Opening", though it precedes this one chronologically). It was partially inspired by music written by The Piano Guys   
(whose conservative political leanings I do *not* endorse, and choose to ignore because--damn it all!--there are so few things in life that make me feel genuine and unadulterated happiness).

At midnight, the sky over Gravity Falls was all aglow with stars. But no moonlight shone down, nor were any streetlamps lit. In other words, it was a beautiful but dark night.

But, if one were to pass through the woods just outside the bounds of William Henry Harrison Combined Middle and High School, one would find that it was not necessarily a quiet night.

****

Looking at the school, Dipper moaned, “_Man_ . . . I can’t believe we’re really about to do this . . .”

“I know, right?” Mabel whispered back giddily. “This is gonna be so _epic ninja awesome_ with romance from beyond the grave! Eeeee! I can’t stand how cool this all is!”

“_Cool_?! We’re about to break into the _school_! It’s not like breaking into the museum; this could have . . . _ramifications_ . . .”

“We’re not breaking in _per se_ . . .” Norman interjected nervously. “I mean, we _do_ have keys . . .”

“Yeah, my President’s Key and that cardkey_ we stole_!”

“Because we’re so _epic ninja awesome_!” Mabel squealed as quietly as she could.

“Stop delighting in the fact that we’re so good at committing crimes!” Dipper ordered angrily. “I’m pretty sure this delighting in our talent at lawlessness is immoral.”

“_Never_!”

“And have either of you considered _any_ of the potential ramifications of this?”

“I’m too carried away by our _epic ninja awesomeness_ to stop for ramifications!” Mabel exalted.

“What happens to the janitor when he has to report his cardkey’s missing?” Dipper wondered anxiously aloud. “What happens to us if we get caught? What happens if we _don’t_ get caught, and there’s never any check on our lawlessness? We’ll probably be too high on our own unstoppableness to _not_ become criminal kings! We’re probably setting ourselves up right now for a life of . . . of jewel heists, and intricate cons, and frienemy relationships with Interpol agents, and other questionably moral stuff!”

“But only for good causes,” Mabel reassured him. “We’ll be _epic ninja awesome_ Robin Hoods! Robbing the rich to feed . . . well, ourselves first of all. Then maybe orphans or widows, or something . . . I’ll be ‘Mabel Marion’ and Norman will be ‘Norman Hood’ and you’ll be ‘Little—”

“Don’t say it!”

Norman snapped. “Okay, _you_.” He pointed at Dipper with fingers wrapped individually in tape. “Stop whining about the ramifications. We’re _not_ gonna become criminal kings.”

“_Awwwww_ . . .” Mabel pouted.

“We’re not doing anything _immoral_; we’re just borrowing the school’s recording equipment—not even taking it out of the building. In fact, we’re doing something that’s _very_ _moral_ that no one else can do. If we don’t do this, how is Orpheus gonna be able to move on? Huh?” Norman challenged him. “Besides, this was _your_ idea.”

“_Which I suggested sarcastically_! Y’know, _sarcasm_? The thing that means ‘I am not being serious with this idea, so laugh because it is actually a funny joke’?”

“You really should work on that. Not even I’m sure when you’re being sarcastic,” Mabel stated.

“And _you_,” Norman rounded on Mabel. “Stop saying ‘epic ninja awesome’ all the time, ‘cause—my gosh!—it is getting _so_ annoying.”

“_Never_!”

“And _please_ be quieter. _Jeez_! We’re supposed to be _sneaking_ in.”

“Oh. Okay, I can do that. One of my Ninja Mabel Secret Techniques.”

“I still think this is a bad idea . . .” Dipper grumbled.

“Well, it was one of _yours_, so it’s bound to be,” Norman grumbled back.

“Heeeey . . .” Dipper protested while Mabel snickered.

But before Dipper could say more, Norman held up his hand for silence. “He’s coming back . . .”

The Pines twins waited in silence. At times their eyes would flit to where their friend was gazing so intently, but they couldn’t (under normal circumstances) see or hear all the things Norman could. They were not Mediums, as he was.

But if they had been, then they too would have seen a spectral man hurrying back towards them across the sports field. The man’s hair was as dark and pressed as his tailcoat tuxedo; his eyes were the same jet black—deep and passionate; his shirt, tie, and vest were whiter than snow, setting off the creamy mocha hue of his skin. This was Orpheus Clavier, the late and would-have-been-great pianist, who died suddenly at the age of thirty-one. Fortunately, his ghost retained the sleek and classy appearance of a man about to perform onstage (right after addressing a press conference for the successful charity drive he had organized to collect and deliver pianos to inner-city community centers for underprivileged children), as he had looked up until the last second before his death (when a tragic but hilarious Rube-Goldberg-esque sequence of events caused him to be crushed by one of the pianos).

{I’ve checked every room,} Orpheus informed Norman. {The place is empty. And frankly, kinda spooky . . .}

“_Spooky_?” Norman repeated incredulously.

“What’d he say?” Mabel asked.

“He said the place is empty and spooky.”

“But he’s a ghost. You realize _you_ are a ghost, right? A spook?” Dipper asked the empty air—empty for him and Mabel, at least. “What does a spook find spooky?”

Orpheus sighed, {Tell Dipper to be careful, because that’s racist.}

“He says that was racist.”

“Wait, what? No, it wasn’t. Just because I made fun of a dead guy doesn’t mean I’m racist against dead people,” Dipper retorted.

{Oh, for the love of—}

“I think he meant like racist against black people.”

“Huh? How? That makes no sense,” Dipper asserted. “The word ‘spook’ means ‘ghost’. _Everyone_ knows that. So it was a little cheesy, maybe, but not racist.”

“That’s what I thought,” Norman concurred. “On both points.”

Typing into her phone, Mabel announced, “Dictionary.com confirms that ‘spook’ and ‘ghost’ are synonymous. Also, the new word of the day is ‘cahoots’. I already knew that one, so I’m winning today. We’re all in _cahoots_ to break into the school.”

{Please ask Mabel to read the other definitions.}

“Orpheus would like you to read the definitions, Mabel.”

“Cahoots: in partnership; in league.”

“I think he meant for ‘spook’, Mabel.”

“Oh, right . . . a ghost; specter—great word, specter . . . or a ghostwriter . . . eccentric person . . . espionage agent; spy . . . Ooooo,” she said slowly. “A black person (Disparaging and Offensive). Both of those are _capitalized_, too. Sorry, bro-bro, looks like you’re an accidental bigot . . .”

{Checkmate, white boy.}

“Checkmate, white boy,” Norman repeated. “Er, he says.”

Dipper looked genuinely surprised. “Um . . . Sorry, Orpheus. I did _not_ know that was racist.”

{That’s alright.}

“He says it’s alright,” Norman transmitted.

“But I still say that makes no sense,” Dipper maintained. “I mean, if someone’s gonna make a racial slur, it should at least make sense.”

{I agree that it makes zero sense as an insult.}

“He says it makes zero sense to him, too.”

{In a way,} Orpheus added meditatively, {it actually makes me happy that you kids didn’t know that . . . Maybe the mistakes of the past are really finally fading away . . . Anyway, you three ready?}

“I’m ready,” Norman declared. “What about you two?”

“Yep!” Mabel answered.

“Such a bad idea, but . . .” Dipper stuck his fist out. “Mystery Kids?”

“Mystery Kids!” Mabel cheered, setting her fist against her brother’s.

“C’mon, Orpheus,” Norman prompted. “It’s like a tradition.”

Rolling his eyes, Orpheus Clavier stuck his spectral fist in with Dipper’s and Mabel’s. Then Norman joined in. “Mystery Kids! Let’s do this! _Gogogo_!”

The kids darted across the darkened field, and Orpheus soared after them. Reaching the wall, they pressed themselves into the shadows and then began to creep along it.

“Norman, are you _humming_?” Dipper hissed.

“. . . Maybe . . .”

“What tune is that? Is that James Bond?” Mabel asked.

“Mission Impossible, I think.”

“It’s unnecessary noise during a _covert_ _operation_,” Dipper said. “Besides, James Bond is better.”

“Fine, then.” And Norman began humming the theme to James Bond.

Soon they reached a door.

“Dipper,” Norman whispered. “Key.”

“But this is the gym,” Mabel objected.

“_Perfect_. If they find our fingerprints, we can explain easily; we’re in the gym like every day,” Dipper said craftily. He drew the gilded key from one of the many inner pockets of his vest, then crouched in front of the door. “Dang it . . . I can’t see . . .”

“Should I turn it on now?” Mabel asked.

“Not yet. It’ll be _way_ too bright out here,” Norman declared. “How about your phone?”

“Oh, right. Thank you, guilt-tripped Gruncle Stan . . .” Mabel flicked it out, and then directed the illumination over the door for her brother.

A few seconds later, he swung the door open for them. “Oh, yeah! Da-dum da-da ba-da-dum!” he sang in quiet exaltation. “The name’sh Pinesh. Dipper Pinesh. Chocolate milk—shaken, not shtirred.”

“So is this still a bad idea?” Norman asked smugly.

“_Absolutely_,” Dipper replied without any hesitation. He shut and locked the door behind them. “But at least it’s turning out to be a _fun_ one.”

They stood for a moment in a wide expanse of near total blackness; some light filtered in through the gym’s high windows and the exit signs over every door emitted a smoldering red glow (Norman had, in addition, the faint aura that surrounded Orpheus), but otherwise it was an empty void. They crossed it, their footsteps echoing like distant thunder, and then slipped into the school proper. Again, high windows and smoldering exit signs served to contrast the regular darkness of the school’s main corridor with the deeper darkness of its many alcoved doorways and side-corridors. It was like standing in a maze of underground tunnels.

“Okay, I’m starting to get a sense for why Orpheus would think this is so spoo . . . um, creepy?” Mabel offered uncertainly. “Can we still say something is spooky, or what?”

{Spooky is just fine. Just don’t call a black person a spook—_even_ _if_ they’re a ghost.}

“He says the word ‘spooky’ is fine, just don’t call a black person a spook.”

“Gotcha. Anyway, this place if like ‘ax-murderer hiding in the shadows’ spooky,” Mabel stated. “They’d come out all ‘Nuh! Nuh! Nuh! Nuh!’ and swinging their ax.”

{I never did like schools or churches or concert halls when they were empty and dark. They’re all like this,} Orpheus grumbled. {And they didn’t stop being spooky just because I’m dead.}

“No kidding,” Norman laughed uneasily.

Mabel reached a decision. “Yeah, I’m turning it on now.”

Click.

The sweater she wore, her latest creation, seemed to blaze in the darkness. Multi-colored lights twinkled up and down her sleeves like the arms of a galaxy. Others had been carefully arranged across her chest (like constellations against a field of stars) to spell out “LIGHT OF YOUR LIFE”. It was a true testament to Mabel’s knitting skills that she could so flawlessly interweave strands of Christmas lights with the yarn. The strands plugged into a battery pack she kept hidden in the pocket.

“It’s _alight_! They said it couldn’t be done! They said I was insane, but my creation IS ALIGHT! BWAHAHAHA! Doctor Mabel Pines is a FREAKIN’ MAD GENIUS!” She twirled ahead, exalting in success. “IT’S _ALIGHT_!”

“I never said it _couldn’t_ be done. I said it probably _shouldn’t_ be done,” Dipper reminded her. “Because sometimes you get an idea in your head and go absolutely, Smile-Dip-tripping insane.”

“I’VE NEVER BEEN SO HAPPY IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!”

{Whoa . . .} Orpheus gaped, slack-jawed. {She’s really . . . sorta nuts . . .}

“Yeah, she does stuff like this sometimes. Well, kinda all the time,” Norman corrected himself. “She’s happiest when she can add a ‘bwa’ to her ‘hahaha’. Though I guess Dipper and I do too . . .”

Jogging after his sister, Dipper called, “Mabel, wait up!”

But Mabel danced and hummed all the way to the music room, lighting their way through the darkness like a guiding star as she did. Once there, she kept humming and dancing until they caught up. “I can’t wait for this! Get the door, Dipping Sauce! Your music is gonna be _soooo_ beautiful, Orpheus.”

{Yeah . . .}

Norman grinned teasingly up at him. “You’re not _nervous_, are you?”

{Of _course_ I am. I always got a little nervous before a performance, wanting it to be perfect . . . for her . . .} he added longingly. {And this . . . this is no different; I’m, as always, performing just for her. So it has to be _perfect_. She _deserves_ it to be perfect.}

“You’ll do fine.”

{_We_’ll do fine. I hope . . .} the Ghost added, so quietly that not even Norman could hear.

The lock gave. “Got it!” And Dipper pushed the door open for the others with his elbow. “Gentleman. Lady. Ghost.”

The music room was large enough for an orchestra to practice, with carpeted floors and walls to prevent reverberations. By the bright twinkling of Mabel’s electric sweater, the racks of encased larger instruments at the back were dimly visible, as were the cupboards crammed full of smaller instruments. Empty chairs and stands were systematically arranged for the different sections. One battered yet wholesome old piano was pushed off to the side of the conductor’s podium, ready and waiting for use. Two microphones hung from the high ceiling—about two-thirds of the way back, and about one-third and two-thirds of the way across respectively. Their wires led into a little room behind a thick door with an electronic lock.

All business, Dipper stated, “We’ve got the piano. Now we just need to access the recorder.”

Mabel grinned. “With our immorally procured cardkey. Epic ninja awesome _ramifications_!”

“Stop reminding me. You want to get that while we get the piano?”

Snorting, Mabel accepted the cardkey. “Sure, bro. You two _manly_ _men_ go do the heavy lifting.”

“Where do you want the piano?” Norman asked. “Does it matter?”

{Er . . . No, I don’t think so. Maybe a little closer to the recording room?}

Together, Dipper and Norman maneuvered the piano to just behind the conductor’s podium. Meanwhile, Mabel swiped her way into the recording room, and there snagged one of two microphones on stands. A long wire snaked along behind it as she carried it over to the piano. “I think this is mic #1. When we’re ready to start recording, I think we just need to pop in our disc, set the machine to record, and switch on the mic #1 input.”

{Yeah, that’s all we gotta do . . .} Orpheus confirmed uneasily.

“Orpheus says that’s it. So . . . we ready to do this?” Norman asked, also uneasily.

Dipper drew a blank disc from his vest and handed it to Mabel. He also drew out a camcorder. “You better handle the stuff in there, since you’re the only one who can see. I’ve got our camcorder (thank you, guilt-tripped Gruncle Stan) on and rolling now . . . How about the stars of tonight’s show?” he asked, training the camera on Norman.

For his part, Norman ran a bandage-wrapped hand through his untamably spikey hair—a sure sign he was feeling somewhat nervous. “Oh, _man_ . . . Here we go . . .” he muttered bracingly to himself. Then he looked up at Orpheus. “I’m letting you in.”

Orpheus nodded. {Thank you. Again and again.}

Essentially, the Ghost walked into the Medium.

Norman went rigid. He inhaled deeply—as if breathing for the first time after nearly drowning. Norman was even lifted up off his feet for a moment. When he came back down, he was surrounded by a spectral aura that even Dipper and Mabel could see. When his eyes opened, there was an unearthly gleam in them.

“Everything okay?” Dipper asked.

The voice that came from Norman’s lips was not his own; it had a much lower pitch, and a different accent and cadence entirely from the Massachusetts-born teen. It was the voice of Orpheus. “Yes, I think so . . . This is always so bizarre, though, looking down at hands that are the wrong size and the wrong color . . .”

Orpheus splayed Norman’s bandage-wrapped fingers and twiddled them, watching their movements with an abject fascination. And perhaps a trace of guilt, truth be told. Then he began to roll his wrists, his elbows, and his shoulders. After a minute’s time, the favorite red sweater which Norman always wore was removed and handed to Dipper.

“Know what you’re going to say to her?”

“I’ve known for years,” the voice of Orpheus replied wistfully. “Tonight, I’ll finally say it . . .”

Dipper nodded. “I hope it’s worth . . . everything Norman’s gone through. Ready, Mabel?”

In the recording room, Mabel flicked some switches. A small light on the microphone came on, and she hurried to rejoin the others. She was beaming excitedly, more so than even her sweater.

Orpheus walked Norman forward, and then took a deep breath. “My beloved Eurydice Euterpe,” he began, speaking softly into the microphone. “Heh . . . I know you’ve always hated being called that—you’ve always preferred ‘Double-Eu’—but I _love_ your name. It always sounds like pure music to me . . . Eurydice, I’m . . . This is about music; that’s why I’m making this recording. I bet . . . well, you’re probably wondering why and _how_ I even made it. Since I’m dead. And I _am_ dead right now . . . Unfortunately, that’s the truth. But there’s something important I need to say—something I want you to hear so badly that . . . that I refused to move on . . . And then I was lucky enough to run into someone with a rare gift. A very rare gift, and a kind heart. It’s thanks to him and his friends that I’m able to speak to you now.”

Dipper kept the camcorder trained on his friend’s body. Mabel watched, trying hard not to cry. It was all just too sweet and beautiful for her.

“I’m rambling; I’m sorry,” the voice of Orpheus apologized self-deprecatingly. “But I suppose you’re used to that. As I said, this is about a piece of music—a performance—and the message behind it. Heh . . . You’re probably laughing right now. Isn’t it always about the performances with me? After all, you once said that I lived for my time onstage . . . And I did, it’s true!” Orpheus admitted with a laugh. “But the reason is . . . Ever since I met you and you told me you never missed a performance of mine . . . I was playing for you. Just for you. In fact, I’d find you in the crowd every night so that I could play . . . could play right to you . . . Sort of send the music to you like some sort of bouquet . . .”

Norman’s bandaged fingers wiped a tear from his eyes, which surprised Dipper. It made him wonder briefly who was crying. Orpheus, the Ghost? Norman, his best friend? Both of them?

“But this one . . .” Orpheus continued huskily. “This is about the performance I didn’t give . . . The one you didn’t get to hear, even though . . . even though I composed it just for you . . . I wanted you to hear it _so_ _badly_ . . . And then that _damn_ piano came out of nowhere. I kinda hope someone got fired for that . . . Is that petty? I hope not . . . Anyway, Eurydice Euterpe, my muse . . . I held on so you could hear this performance from me . . . So that I could tell you, the only way I really knew, that I love you. Eurydice Euterpe, I want you know that you are the passion in every performance. You are the love behind every note I play. My life . . . my life was filled with joy because you were in it . . . I love you, Eurydice Euterpe . . . That’s what this piece means and what I need to say. I love you . . . I love you . . .” Orpheus concluded, nearly choking up.

“_Aw_, _jeez_ . . .” Dipper cussed at himself. Even he had to wipe away a tear, and that irritated him. But what really irritated him was that Mabel had seen it, and was grinning at him through her own tears. Dipper knew then that he was never going to hear the end of this. He would never live _or_ death it down.

It took a moment for Orpheus to regain his composure. When he had, he seated Norman’s body at the piano, though force of habit (or perhaps phantom tux syndrome) made him flick back tails that Norman wasn’t wearing. Then bandage-wrapped fingers hovered over the keys, feeling where they were by instinct—searching for the pull of the music that draws every musician to the right note on their instrument like a wire . . .

It started off slow and quiet, with keys in the upper register twinkling like stars. Others joined shortly after, as more and more stars will flare into life once night falls. Then notes began to play in the lower register, deep but just as soft. They were like the sound of the earth waking to beautiful night, and singing for the joy of summer darkness. They came to form a melody, with which the stars harmonized. It became full and powerful, low and high joining as one—the earth singing to the stars and for the stars and with the stars. The music filled the dark room, making it brighter than even Mabel’s electric sweater. Seldom had one man so eloquently expressed joy and passion and love.

Then Norman’s hand struck the final chord, and it was over.

Mabel ran to end the recording, then ran back to hug Norman and Orpheus together.

Dipper breathed, “_Wow_ . . . That was _amazing_ . . .”

Orpheus seemed not to hear. He had Norman hunched over the keys, as if still listening for the pull of the music . . .

“She’ll _love_ it!” Mabel exclaimed, still wiping tears from her eyes. “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life! It was _perfect_, Orpheus!”

“No . . .” Orpheus said quietly.

“Huh?”

“No, it _wasn’t_ perfect . . . The sound just . . . isn’t right yet. It’s still missing . . . _something_ . . .” Orpheus declared in dissatisfaction.

“Wait, what?” Dipper broke in. “You said _yesterday_ it was finally perfect.”

“I was wrong. I see that now . . . No, this isn’t good enough for her.”

“No way, man. No way,” Dipper said categorically. “You got your recording, like you needed. And it was amazing. After a month of overworking Norman with practicing, too,” he added accusingly.

When Orpheus turned Norman to look at Dipper, the unearthly gleam was practically a glare. “You don’t understand. It _needs_ to be _perfect_ for her.”

“And _how_ _long_ is it going to take to make it perfect, man?” Dipper demanded. “Another _week_? Maybe a _month_? How much of Norman’s hands are we going to have to bandage before it’s perfect?” he asked, anger starting to show.

“You think I don’t know what it costs him—that I don’t know what he’s sacrificing to help me?” Orpheus countered. “I feel the strains and the blisters, too.”

“But only _part_ of the time!” Dipper snapped.

“All the more reason to make it perfect! To honor his sacrifice!”

“Orpheus,” Mabel tried more placatingly. “It was beautiful. I don’t see how it could be better. Besides, Norman . . . Well, he’s not a full-grown man who’s trained at the piano his whole life. I’m sure he still wants to help, but what more can he do?”

With Norman’s face, Orpheus smiled like a mad genius who has finally had a breakthrough. “Nothing. But _I_ know what’s missing, and _I_ can make it right. Yes . . .” The spectral aura intensified, and Norman’s body rose into the air. With a gesture, the aura spread throughout the dark room, enveloping instrument after instrument. “It needs some lower strings . . . and upper strings . . .”

“No! _Hell_ no, man!” Dipper shouted, jumping forward. “Now you’ve gone too far!”

“No, I’ve not gone _far enough_! _We’re_ _almost_ _there_!”

Mabel was at Dipper’s side, protesting, “You know how much a regular possession drains him! Doing this is like rocket engines when he’s out of fuel! You could really burn him out! And then _crash_! Ka-boom!”

Dipper reached for his friend’s leg, but then suddenly Norman intervened. “Guys, please stop,” his voice asked them gently. “It’s alright. I _want_ to do this . . .” They both looked at him, seeing that the unearthly gleam had retreated from Norman’s eyes. It was their friend speaking to them now.

“This is a _bad_ idea. I do _not_ like it,” Dipper told him stubbornly.

“On a cray-cray scale of one to ten, this is a _nineteen_!” Mabel insisted. “The _craziest_ number!”

“I know. But I can see what Orpheus is planning, and I think I can do it,” Norman said earnestly. “I can hold on through it. He needs our help to finish this, guys, and he is _so_ close . . . I _want_ to help him. I’m the _only_ _one_ who can . . . And I want to hear the music. I want to _play_ it, guys . . . Trust me . . .”

Dipper and Mabel traded a glance. Mabel shrugged. “It’s either trust him or truss him—means tie up (yesterday’s word of the day—I won then, too). And we don’t have any rope.”

“What about your grappling hook?”

“I . . . kinda didn’t bring it,” Mabel admitted sheepishly.

“What?! Oh, _Mabel_!” Dipper groaned.

“What? I’ve only left it home like once or twice—”

“_Five times_,” Dipper interrupted her emphatically. “You’ve left it home _five_ _times_ when it could have been really useful. I’ve kept count: that time with Slenderman, when the gnome’s sought revenge, the thunderbird migration, the cult of El Chupacabra, and that time with Gideon’s giant peach. _Five_.”

Orpheus, somewhat miffed at being ignored, cleared Norman’s throat. “Ahem.”

“You can always try the Lamby Dance,” Mabel suggested. “Maybe it’ll work on Orpheus.”

“Lamby Dance?” Orpheus repeated quizzically, though he spoke for Norman.

Shaking his head, Dipper said flatly. “Nope. Not gonna do that.”

“Then . . . we have to trust Norman.”

It frustrated him to do so, but Dipper relented; there was nothing else he could do. However, not without first issuing an ultimatum to possessor and possessee. “Listen up, _both_ of you. You’re going to try this ghost-fueled insanity, but you’re going to _stop_ if it looks like it’s too much for Norman. I swear on3, if you two go too far and he passes out—”

“Then we had best stop wasting time. Every second _counts_ and every second _costs_,” the voice of Orpheus interrupted testily. With a wave of Norman’s hand, he cleared aside all the chairs and stands.

“Orpheus, understand that if you hurt my friend further,” Dipper continued savagely. “I will go Ghostbusters II on your ectoplasmic backside.”

“I quake in Norman’s boots.” The basses and celli floated from their racks to settle on the left of the piano, while the violins and violas popped out of their cases and took their place on its right—arranged from lower to higher pitch like the keys of a piano.

“You’d better. Hurt Norman, and I _break_ _the_ _disc_. The recording is _collateral_.”

“Whoa . . .” Mabel breathed.

Norman’s body went rigid for a moment, and then nodded. “That is fair,” Orpheus conceded. “But unnecessary.” Tuning pegs were whirling as the string instruments tuned themselves. “Let’s see . . . Alright, winds and brass, too. It _needs_ them . . .” Those cases popped open, and the contents assembled themselves in midair before arranging themselves behind the strings.

“Norman, you have control in this,” Dipper insisted. “You can stop it if it gets to be too much . . . I _don’t_ wanna see you hurt yourself, so if you make me see that again . . . Man, I will freakin’ _leave_ your comatose ghost-butt here for the cops and . . . and the _principal_ to find. With all the break-in evidence. And I’ll probably draw rude things on your face, too,” he added for an extra dose of menacing.

In actuality, it just made Mabel roll her eyes. She did add, though, “And a bow in your hair. Pink. Oh my gosh, why didn’t I think of that before now?!”

Norman’s own voice insisted, “I know what I’m doing, Dipper. I can handle this.”

Then Orpheus’s voice decided, “And the percussion . . .” Several different drums, cymbals, and chimes joined the orchestra. “Yes . . . This might be enough . . .”

“You sure? Don’t you want a _gong_, too?” Dipper asked snidely. “Maybe some . . . maracas or something? Mabel, what’s another musical instrument?”

“I dunno. Those finger clicking things? Canastas?”

“Yeah, you sure you don’t want some canastas, too?”

Orpheus ignored him, however, and presided over the self-tuning instruments. After a moment, he asked, “Mabel, if you would please prepare the recording equipment for a second track?”

“Um . . . Sure.”

And while Mabel hurried away, Dipper glaringly positioned himself with the camcorder. “Can you really control the whole orchestra?”

“Yes, I can. I can play it like a giant piano.”

“Does Norman really have enough strength for all of them?”

“Yes,” Orpheus replied, though after a moment’s hesitation.

“You two idiots better know what you’re doing . . .”

From the other room, Mabel called out, “Ready? Here we go!”

The small light on the microphone flicked on, and Orpheus settled Norman’s body before the piano for a second time.

It started anew, with the twinkling stars of piano keys reflected in the soft pizzicato of violins and the gentlest chiming of bells. Again, the earth woke slowly and quietly in the lower register. These lower notes on the piano resonated in the lower strings. Later, the winds and the brass joined, and the percussion with them—as if they were all part of the piano, all one instrument being played by a single musician. But they never drowned out the piano, and when Orpheus willed it, they were silent. They served the piano’s solo according to his composition.

And for every note, a different color flared briefly on the keys and the strings, or the valves, or whatever part of the instruments resonated to produce sound. The spectrum flared in the spectral aura; like stars born of the music, shining in the dark of the music room.

Dipper caught it all on camera, even weaving around or under the instruments. Though he found this reckless and foolhardy, he had to admit it was spectacular.

The wider range of sounds expressed more fully the poetry of the composition. The earth and the stars made their harmonious love stretch across and fill the infiniteness of a night sky. The one reached up, though it would never pull down; the other reached down, though it could never pull up. The earth was filled with a yearning too passionate to dare hope, then happiness too ecstatic to believe. It sang to the stars what made them beautiful. Though harder than stone and stronger than titanium, it vowed to catch and hold every shooting star. Not a one would ricochet. The stars had farther to fall, yet the earth fell with them through all that dizzying rapture. Never had one man so eloquently expressed a life’s worth of joy and passion and love.

It would be impossible to say how long the earth and the stars fell together—how long Orpheus and Eurydice had fallen together—but the camcorder said the piece lasted about seven minutes.

Mabel switched off the equipment and extracted the still warm disc while Orpheus carefully caused each and every instrument to drift the ground. The spectral aura that had filled the room then withdrew, until it only shone around Norman’s silhouette.

“Satisfied?” Dipper asked, though with less hostility in his tone.

“Yes . . . It was . . . finally perfect . . .” the voice of Orpheus answered dreamily. “Thank you, Norman. Thank you for everything . . .”

And then, essentially, the Ghost walked out of the Medium.

For an instant, Norman tottered on his own two feet, looking up at Orpheus. He smiled blissfully. “It was so . . . beautiful . . .” And then his eyes rolled white and he fell straight backward.

“Norman? _Norm_!” Dipper shouted, diving forward to catch his friend. But Norman was limp in Dipper’s arms. “Unconscious . . . I hope you’re happy, Orpheus!” Dipper snarled at the empty air. “I hope you’re _real_ proud of yourself!”

Mabel ran to join her brother, exclaiming, “Oh my gosh, is he alright?! He looks so _pale_!”

“Well . . . he kinda _always_ looks pale,” Dipper pointed out worriedly.

“And he’s so cold, and all clammy!”

“I know. Help me slip his sweater back on him . . . Okay, now let me try and remember some of that first aid stuff I read . . .”

“Do we need to elevate his butt so that his brain gets enough blood?”

“What? No, that wouldn’t help. Look at how skinny his butt is.”

Mabel paused. Then she snorted. “You look at his butt?”

“Anyone can see how skinny it is,” Dipper replied clinically. “It’s just right _there_.”

“Well then, maybe elevate his head?”

Dipper looked at his sister in exasperation. “His brain is _in_ his head.”

“It would make all the blood in his hair flow to his brain,” Mabel answered at once.

“Hair doesn’t get blood. Everyone knows that.”

“Then how does his hair stay all ‘whoosh’ all the time?” Mabel challenged him triumphantly.

“I . . . don’t have an answer to that. Look, sit down and put his feet on your legs; _that’ll_ help,” Dipper assured her. “I’m gonna check his breathing and heartbeat. Remind me to sign up for an EMT course tomorrow . . .”

While Dipper put an ear to Norman’s chest, and then to his mouth (his heartbeat and breathing were steady, as far as Dipper could tell), Mabel did as he instructed. After about a minute, she asked, “So . . . what now? Are you really gonna break the disc?”

Pursing his lips, Dipper declared, “I haven’t decided. If Norman doesn’t wake up soon, I _might_. Orpheus could have really hurt him . . .”

“You’re not really gonna leave Norman behind, are you?”

“No . . .” Dipper sighed. “Looks like I’m carrying him back to the Shack again. Jeez, how many times do I have to haul Norman’s ghost-butt back home?”

“What? You mean you haven’t kept a detailed count?”

“Of course I have,” Dipper grumbled. “This is the _third_ time. I was just being rhetorical.”

“He’s hauled your dipstick-butt back twice now,” Mabel reminded him playfully.

“So I’m winning,” Dipper retorted. “Help me get him up, will you?”

****

The sun was already up when Norman blinkingly opened his eyes. With a low groan, he sat up and squinted around. He was in Dipper and Mabel’s bedroom, up in the attic of the Mystery Shack, and he sat alone amidst the tangled remains of their shared sleepover bedding.

Usually when Norman slept over, the Pines twins pushed their mattresses together on the floor before smothering them with enough blankets and pillows to choke a caravan of camels; then the four of them (the three kids plus Mabel’s pet pig, Waddles) bedded down (Mabel and Waddles on one side, Norman on the other, and Dipper in the middle). By next morning, the result was invariably a tangled mess similar to the one amidst which Norman now sat. Similar, but different—as are all snowflakes. Mabel and Dipper both had a tendency to roll in their sleep (and to latch onto and cuddle heat sources, though Norman had to admit to himself that he minded that tendency not so much).

He squinted again owlishly. Dipper and Mabel were gone; only Waddles remained, wrapped up in the bedding like a literal pig in a blanket. He didn’t remember going to bed last night, but his shoes and socks had been removed, as had his sweater. “Wha?” he grunted inquiringly at the world.

{You know, the three of you sleep together like a bunch of puppies.}

Norman jerked around clumsily. There was Orpheus at the window, nearly hidden in a sunbeam.

{It was so sweet that it might have given me terminal diabetes,} Orpheus joked halfheartedly. {Except I’m a ghost, and already dead . . . So, you’re finally awake. How do you feel?}

It took a moment for Norman to fully register that question, but the effects of sleep were gradually fading. “Good . . .” he mumbled feebly. “Like I slept through the whole night. For once . . . But really weak . . . and _hungry_ . . . Man, I’m _starving . . _.”

{That would be the result of our . . . um, _exploits_ last night,} Orpheus observed sheepishly. {Worry not, however; a few days rest and some hearty meals should put you back on your feet. When I last left the twins a few minutes ago, they were preparing pancakes.}

“Yeah, they like pancakes. Pancakes are the answer . . . and sometimes even the question,” Norman chuckled to himself. “Inside joke. Wonder what the odds are they’ll bring some up to me . . .”

{Uh . . . Good, I’d say. It might be awhile, though; they were arguing heatedly about the syrup.}

“Heh. They always do . . .” Norman lay back with a stifled moan, then continued, “I’m sorta surprised to see you’re still here . . . _Happy_, but surprised . . . Thought last night would resolve your unfinished business and allow you to move on . . .”

{It isn’t finished until the disc reaches her} the Ghost declared. {I plan to stick with it until then—make sure she actually hears my final message. Good idea on Mabel’s part. Preparing the envelope beforehand and using my name and the old concert hall as the return address, I mean. That way, even if things go awry, it’ll still reach people who can contact her and will help get it to her. So I’m waiting and watching for the Postman to come and retrieve the mail.}

Norman turned his blue eyes on Orpheus. “Are you alright?” he inquired. “You seem a little . . . _rambly_ today.”

{Um . . . actually, there is also some unfinished business to conclude here,} Orpheus began uncomfortably, still looking out the window. {I need to thank you again, and . . . er, apologize.}

“You don’t have to—”

{Yes, I _do_. Norman, you . . . you helped me _immeasurably_, and you didn’t have to. I mean, letting me possess you just to pass on a message was . . . Only a _rare_ person _could_ do that, and only a rare and _kind_ person _would_ do that. But to go through what I put you through so I could play it for her myself . . . A month’s worth of practice so your hands could have the stamina necessary to keep up with me—though you’re just a kid who’d never touched a piano, and I’m a grown man and a concert pianist . . . Despite the fatigue and the strain and the blisters . . .} Orpheus said incredulously. {Look at your hands, Norman. Look at what I did to them.}

In spite of himself, Norman looked at the bandages wrapping his fingers. “It wasn’t _that_ bad . . .”

{Don’t give me that. I felt your pain, too . . . But only _part_ of the time, like Dipper rightly said . . .} Orpheus admitted. {The point is you didn’t _have_ to do that. I had no right to even _ask_, but you _offered_. And you endured it all to help me . . . Even though I could’ve hurt you . . . Even though I nearly did . . . Actually, even though I _did_ . . . You passed out, and Dipper had to carry you all the way back here.}

“_Dang_. He’s winning now,” Norman joked weakly. “He’s gonna be _insufferable_ . . .”

{I’m sorry for putting you through that,} Orpheus finally apologized. {But thank you for choosing to go through it. I’m luckier than I deserve, meeting you . . . I wish there was a way to _really_ repay you, but all I can offer is . . . well, a little unsolicited advice.}

Curious, Norman looked up.

{You recall how, when I . . . Um . . . During that first instant of possession, when everything . . . Damn, this is awkward,} Orpheus muttered to himself. {You saw some of my memories and emotions every time I possessed you, right?}

“Yeah . . .”

{It went both ways; I saw some of yours, too. Unintentionally, of course, but . . . there you are,} Orpheus said with a vaguely expressive gesture. {Some . . . er, _personal_ stuff . . .}

For a moment, Norman stared uncomprehendingly at Orpheus. And then it all clicked, and he began to blush. He turned scarlet.

{Norman, you _see_ ghosts. You _hear_ us and you _speak_ with us,} Orpheus pressed on doggedly. {My advice is to also _learn_ from us. From our _mistakes_ . . . Nearly all of us have unfinished business . . . There’s something that we didn’t say or do, and usually because we were too afraid to say it in life . . . With me, well . . . It was always a matter of finding the right moment . . . I _could have_ told her how I felt before the concert, even played it just for her. But I was afraid she didn’t feel the same way, so I needed the right moment when she couldn’t help but be carried away with me, I guess . . . It was out of fear . . .} he confessed sorrowfully. {But that right moment never came. And then it was too late.}

“You’re t-talking about Dipper,” Norman surmised timidly.

{Yes.}

“How I feel about—”

{Yes.}

“You don’t . . . think I’m a sick freak for liking another boy?” he mumbled, shamefaced.

{No, Norman. Not at all . . . Well, I admit that in life I . . . I tended to think it wasn’t _natural_,} Orpheus confessed awkwardly. {Boys liking boys, and all . . . But it’s hard to think someone’s feelings are wrong when you’ve actually felt the depth and purity of their heart for yourself. Even if unintentionally. And, really, when I think about it . . . I can’t find any logical reason why love would ever be wrong . . . _Lust_, yes, but not real love . . .}

With some measure of hope restored, Norman looked up again at Orpheus.

{What I’m saying is leave _nothing_ unsaid and _nothing_ undone. If not, you’ll regret it. Maybe for the rest of your life, and the rest of your _death_, too . . .} Orpheus advised him quietly and emphatically. {Sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get a second chance. But don’t count on it—don’t take that risk . . . Leave _nothing_ unsaid and _nothing_ undone, Norman. Live with no regrets.}

Norman was silent for a moment. “And what if that ruins everything? What if . . . telling Dipper how I feel about him ruins my friendship with him? What if that makes him _hate_ me?”

{That’s always a risk. In _everything_. I don’t deny it. Someone told me that love is like a letter—you can choose who you send it to, but not who sends it to you. But at least then you’ll have _tried_, instead of never sending it at all and . . . and wondering what might have been.}

“But . . . is that worth the risk of losing _everything_?”

{I don’t know, Norman; that’s a call _you_ have to make. But, from my personal experience, nothing is worse than the regret of leaving something like love unsaid . . . The regret’s _always_ with you. Besides, I doubt Dipper would ever hate you,} Orpheus added reassuringly. {Sure, he might be infatuated with that Wendy girl, but he carried you all the way back here—over a mile, if I had to guess. Not for the first time either, apparently. And he stayed up until three checking your vitals and ensuring you weren’t dying. I’m actually convinced he only stopped because he dozed off.}

“He did?” Norman asked bashfully.

{Dipper _loves_ you. It might not be the same kind of love you have for him, but it’s just as strong. That’s what I gather, at least,} Orpheus said with a shrug. {It won’t just die if you tell him how you feel. And _maybe_, just _maybe_ . . . it can become like yours . . .}

“Heh . . . Bromance to romance?”

{I hate that word, but yes.}

Norman laughed. “Thanks, Orpheus. I’ll remember what you’ve told me.”

{It’s the least I—_ah_, here comes the Postman . . .} Orpheus observed regretfully. {Hairy, isn’t he? Is he some sorta werewolf, do you think?}

“Were_cat_, but not anymore,” Norman replied as he shuffled to the window. “We cured him.” Looking down at the Postman (Mister Lycanthrope, by name), he said sadly, “I guess this is goodbye . . . I’m _really_ gonna miss you, Orpheus . . .”

{Likewise, Norman. Thank you for everything. You are a good kid—_no_,} Orpheus stopped and corrected himself. {You’re a _good man_ and it was a pleasure meeting you. Please, um . . . please pass on my thanks, apologies, and farewells to Dipper and Mabel.}

With that, Orpheus floated out into the early light of the daystar to follow his disc back home.

A few minutes later, Dipper and Mabel entered the room, heavy laden with plates of breakfast. “Who wants pancakes? Hot off the—Norman, are you alright? Why are you crying?”

****

On Monday, when the music room was discovered, there was something of a kerfuffle at William Henry Harrison Combined Middle and High School; however, it was soon determined that nothing was missing or damaged. Only a janitor’s cardkey, which later turned up outside his car. The local “newspaper” (_The Gossiper_) would declare it _Much Adagio about Nothing_ based on Sheriff Blubs’ press release that it was all “obviously a harmless prank by some school kids” and “unsolvable, anyway. Now, who wants to go get a blintz?”

The police investigation, however, (which consisted mostly of Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland banging on various percussion instruments) did not prevent Norman from slipping into the props closet of the drama room during lunch. It was unoccupied at that time, after all, and far enough removed from the “crime scene” that no one was paying it much attention.

And there, amidst the bulging racks of regalia and the haphazard mounds of miscellanea, was what he sought: the school’s second piano. It was just as battered, but also just as wholesome as its counterpart in the music room. A quick run down the keys revealed it to be tolerably in tune—something Norman had noticed only the day before that he could now hear.

Hesitantly, he sat on the bench. “Alright, so . . . It starts off . . . here?”

The note sounded right, so he played the next one. And the next one. It was clumsy at first, especially when it came time for the first chords, but Orpheus’s opening melody gradually developed.

Norman stopped. “It’s there . . . I’m just . . . overthinking it, I guess? Gotta let my hands just . . . just _play_ it. Yeah . . .” Then, on an impulse, he unwrapped the bandages from his fingers. The blisters had healed underneath them, leaving the callouses of a musician behind. “That’s better . . .”

A deep breath. Shut eyes. Hands hovering over the keys, feeling where they were by instinct—searching for the pull of the music, like wires to the right note . . .

Before Norman knew it, his hands were playing the song. It flowed naturally so long as he stopped trying to remember how to play it, and just let himself feel the joy and passion and love expressed by playing it . . .

And then he had reached the final movement of the piece, when the motif of ecstatic joy reclaimed the melody and danced wildly across the keys. His fingers were a blur (not that he was watching them), carried away in the moment. All of his being was; he swayed with the music. He even began to sing softly to himself with it—nothing complex or even really cognizant. Just some happy nonsense sounds somewhere between a hum and a serenade:

“Dip Dipper Pines Dipper Dip Dip-Dip Dipper Pines

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper Dip Dip-Dip Dipper Pines

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper Dip Dip-Dip Dipper Pines

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper don’t you know that I love you!

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper Dip Dip-Dip Dipper Pines

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper Dip Dip-Dip Dipper Pines

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper you are the love of my life!

Dipper Pines don’t you know that I love you!

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper Dip Dip-Dip Dipper Pines

Dip Dipper Pines Dipper Dip Dip-Dip Dipper Pines

You are the love of my life! It’s you!

Dip Dipper Pines don’t you know that I love you?

Dip Dipper Pines you are the love of my life!

Dipper Pines don’t you know that I love you!”

And so it ended, the final chord hanging in the air like the laugh of a unicorn under a rainbow made of kitten. The sheer happiness of it was that sweet.

“Hmm . . . Not bad,” Norman congratulated himself.

And then he heard a sound that made his blood run cold and his face burn hot. Someone was behind him and snickering. And that person said, “Well, I _was_ gonna ask who _you_ were playing for—”

“_Mabel_!” Norman exclaimed, spinning around to face her.

“—y’know, since Orpheus was playing for Eurydice, and all. But I guess that last little . . . aria answered my question for me.”

“_How long have you been standing there_?!” Norman demanded, not sure if he was angry or relieved that it was her. Either way, he was incredibly embarrassed. “_I didn_’_t hear you come in_!”

She winked. “Ninja Mabel Secret Technique: Stealthy Silent Sneak! I am more silent than a ghost, and twice as windy.”

“_You have no right to_—wait, what?”

“Whoosh!” And she tackled him, giggling.

“Gah! Mabel, get off!” he protested.

But she was squealing, “You are so freakin’ ADORABLE when you think about my brother! I want to plan your guys’s wedding RIGHT NOW! Your clone babies will be THE CUTEST _EVER_, and I will be the COOLEST AUNTIE _EVER_!”

“_Where is Dipper_?” Norman asked urgently. “He’s not . . . in _here_, is he?”

“Nah, he’s getting lunch for us. I volunteered to go find you . . . So, you can play the piano now,” she said conversationally. “Just be careful what you start singing.”

“Um . . . yeah. Could you get off me now, please?”

Mabel bounded to her feet, then cheerfully hauled Norman upright. “Just Orpheus’s song, or can you play other things?”

“I’m . . . not sure,” Norman admitted. He allowed Mabel to lead him back into the school proper, explaining, “I’ve got this one completely memorized. Like, _really_ memorized—I can see perfectly how the sheet music would be written, complete with all the dynamics and tempo and phrasing markings . . . I even know what ‘dynamics’ and ‘tempo’ and ‘phrasing’ all mean now,” he added deprecatingly.

“_Really_?”

“I started transcribing it last night when I couldn’t sleep . . .”

“You’re writing it down?” Mabel gasped, clearly impressed.

“I started, yeah. Might take a while, though; music takes a long time to write. I’ve gotta write down the parts for every instrument, not just the piano. And I can play it when I don’t worry about what comes next. Just let it come, y’know . . . I don’t know about other songs,” he mused. “I looked at some other sheet music online last night, after I finally had to go home . . . I can hear it now—in my head . . . like someone’s playing it next to me.”

“Epic Musician Awesome! It’s like a thank you gift from beyond the grave!”

“I’m not sure I could play it, though,” he reminded her.

“Well, then _learn_! You’ve got a ginormous head start on the rest of us,” she pointed out as they entered the cafeteria.

Norman considered that. “Hmm . . . Maybe I should . . .”

“Hey, Dipper! Norman can still play Orpheus’s song crazy good!” Mabel gushed to her twin. “And he sings alright, too!”

“M-_Mabel_!”

“Huh . . . That’s really cool,” Dipper affirmed. “Looks like some of Orpheus’s talent soaked in. Nice exchange for nearly killing you Friday night. Or Saturday morning—whatever. And in other news, looks like we don’t have to worry about Sheriff Blubs catching us; the police investigation is making . . . about as much progress as my town-wide petition for mandatory Taco Tuesdays in all public schools . . .” he sighed.

Laying her hands on Norman’s shoulders, Mabel forced him into the seat across from Dipper. Then she larked, “Fascinating! Hey, is that Grenda and Candy in line? How convenient! I just now remembered something important I needed to talk to my BGFFs about! I think I will go talk with them, and then bring them over to sit with us. It might take a few minutes, though, so I guess you two will just have to find some topic of conversation. Just the two of you. _Alone_. Be back in a few minutes!”

“Mabel, what are you up to?” Dipper questioned her suspiciously.

“Tra-la-la-can’t-hear-you! Tra-la-la-going-to-see-my-girlfriends-now!”

“My sister can be so _weird_ sometimes . . .” Dipper muttered. “Here’ you lunch, by the way.”

Norman received the tray with a somewhat blushing, “Th-thanks . . . What is it, anyway?”

“Meatloaf, I think.”

“You sure it’s not some sort of curry?”

“I don’t think curry is supposed to be crumbly.”

“Neither is meatloaf,” Norman retorted.

“True enough. It could be fish? I don’t know,” Dipper sighed. “I have a dream. And in this dream, school lunch is food that is not of indeterminate appearance or taste. And we shall overcome!”

“Heh . . . So we’re safe in our immoral lawlessness?” Norman asked.

“Yeah. I’ve been eavesdropping between (and even during) classes. The ‘music incident’ (or the ‘incidental music’ as I call it—haha!) seems to baffle the Gravity Falls PD . . . Let’s just say that if we ever decide to become criminal kings, we should start here . . . They’ll never catch us! _Never_! We could _rule_ the night!”

Norman laughed.

And he looked closely at his friend. The sight of Dipper’s face always made his heart skip a beat. He loved those chocolate eyes, which gleamed so often with intelligence and concern and enthusiasm; he loved that smile—that wide and easy, yet oh so dorky smile.

And he listened intently to his friend. The sound of Dipper’s voice always made his day brighter. He loved its tone and timbre, the full range of often over-the-top emotions it expressed so unabashedly; he heard more music in it than any song, and had practically since first meeting him.

He _loved_ Dipper. He wanted nothing more than to be around Dipper . . . except, maybe, that Dipper feel the same way about him . . . But Dipper had to know how he felt first . . .

Then, like Orpheus had said, _maybe_, just _maybe_ . . .

Norman cleared his throat. “Hey, D-Dipper, about Friday night . . . Or Saturday morning—whatever . . .”

“Yeah?”

Like Orpheus had said: _Leave nothing unsaid and nothing undone. Live with no regrets_.

“I w-wanted to say . . . Um . . .” Norman licked his lips. His throat didn’t seem to be working.

Dipper looked at Norman expectantly. He was chewing a bite of indeterminate food.

“Um . . . I want you to know, I—”

And the cafeteria was filled with other people, and odd smells, and so much noise . . .

Whatever Orpheus said, there was still such a thing as a _wrong_ moment. This was probably one.

“I . . . didn’t finish our math assignment,” Norman finished lamely. “Did you?”

“What? Man, we spent like the whole weekend together. When would I have even had time? C’mon, man, let’s think _logically_ about this,” Dipper said sarcastically. “_Logically_, Norman.”

“Okay, jeez.”

“Really, that’s like as ‘dur’ a question as it gets. Besides, it’s not due until tomorrow.”

“Y’know, I _am_ a Medium,” Norman reminded him. “I could like totally kill you without it ending our friendship. I’d still be able to talk to you. Just saying.”

“You could _try_. And then I’d whip out a frosty can of Dipper-Fu on your ghost-butt. A Medium? More like a _Minimum_!” Dipper retorted. “Bam! So you coming over after school to work on it, or what?” he asked seriously.

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“If we finish soon enough, we can even put on one of your terrible old horror movies.”

“Sounds great,” Norman replied. And he meant it.

“Mabel will probably have Grenda and Candy over. We could all make a night of it together.”

“Sounds . . . great.”

The Piano Guys:  
Titanium/Pavane  
What Makes You Beautiful


End file.
